The Guysexual’s Guide To Being The Boy

Like the It Girl, The Boy is every stereotypical gay man’s wet dream – he’s the main character of every queer romance novel, and is the (secretly gay) gentleman who all the girls fight tooth and manicured nail over on primetime television. Everyone knows The Boy – he’s spoken about at wine soirees, intimate house parties and exclusive bars, or cooed over at Sunday sundowners, gallery openings and garden bistros (invite only). The society wives call him the most eligible bachelor in town, and although their husbands don’t like him, they all play golf together every second Sunday of the month – in short, he’s everything I’ve ever wanted to be.

In my opinion, The Boy is as much of a slice of perfection as he is a figment of imagination – he’s like an alternative, much-nicer version of Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, without being the douchebag in the beginning.

But whois The Boy? Where does he come from (and where does he go)? Do you know The Boy? Could you be the boy?

If you don’t have a clue, here’s a checklist that might help:He has an important sounding job at an important sounding firm, but no one really knows what he does. He uses words like ‘transcendental’ and ‘synergy’ on his LinkedIn profile and has a picture that was once used in Vogue’s Best Dressed Men list.

He’s great friends with all his exes, except the one who broke his heart over a text message when he was twenty-years-old. Sometimes, he sends them an e-card on their birthday, but will never call.

He has a live-in maid who dotes on him – she’d like to believe that he treats her like his own mother. He doesn’t know her last name.

With his GQ hair and movie star looks, he has blemish-free skin that would put a face cream commercial to shame. He has scars, but he wears those as accessories. A slight cut on his left eyebrow, a mole just under his chin – they add layers to his character, or at least that’s what everyone says about him. He has dimples that he uses to his advantage lavishly.

He has an intense seven-step exfoliating ritual.

He gets upgraded from Economy to Business class, but doesn’t Instagram a picture because he think it’s tacky. He’ll drink his single malt (on the rocks) at the airport lounge nevertheless.

On his birthday, he has a gathering of his closest friends at home, an intimate affair of around sixty people – with free flowing champagne and catered hors d’oeuvres – after which, they rage all night at the newest (and most exclusive) club in town. Slivers of cocaine may or may not be involved.

He has a sea-facing apartment that reeks of old money. It’s done up in the ‘Post Modernist way that he absolutely adores’ (and will tell you all about over canapés and wine) – pulling favours from a close friend of a close friend – the house is littered with curios and knick-knacks from around the world, and he has anecdotes about all of them. You don’t need to ask.

His mother stays a few swanky high-rises away, but they are estranged. He still visits once every few weeks, and sends her primroses (her favourite) on her birthday. He hopes to inherit the beachside holiday home once she passes away.

He plans to write an informal memoir one day, but it will most certainly be ghostwritten. The author will never get the credit, but will be sent off on an all-expense paid trip to Morocco.

He archives his life on Instagram, and his grid is full of pictures of expensive-looking food, throwbacks to exotic holidays and inspirational quotes. He has template filters for all of them – Sunday brunch spruced up with Aden, a trip to Turkey sunlit with Valencia, and a picture of his golden retriever forever immortalised with Clarendon. He lies by saying they are all #NoFilter.

He has a bevy of close friends (but they are all acquaintances) – lawyers, designers and entrepreneurs who sell hipster furniture or/and artisanal produce – but they are all slightly less attractive, slightly less rich and slightly less important. They like all his posts on Instagram, and Snapchat him with the caption #Bestie when they meet him every few weeks.

He doesn’t go to the gym, but has a crossfit trainer who applauds him for being his most motivated client. On alternate weekends, he does Pilates with the girls, after which they gossip over brunch with bottomless mimosas. He only has two glasses.

He’s left behind a train wreck of broken hearts, and on more than one occasion has been the source of inspiration for a poem, a song or the standalone painting. He bought the painting for his curated art collection. It hangs proudly in his living room.

At least three supermodels call him their best friend, and swear that they’d die to see him in a fulfilling relationship. They wouldn’t try setting him up with any of their other (read: obviously less close) gay friends though.

His daily diet is littered with steamed vegetables, cold-pressed juices and free-range meat that he sources from the gourmet deli right around the corner. He doesn’t do cheat days, instead binges out on a cookie sandwich as a cheat meal. He feels guilty after, and tweets about how fat he feels – to a string of compliments from all his friends saying it isn’t so. He does an extra twenty minutes on the spinning cycle to compensate.

He won’t drink beer, because a pint is the equivalent of seven slices of white bread (which he won’t touch). On days when he wants to let loose, he’ll have a few gin and tonics, and load them up with cucumber slices or almond bitters.

He’s popular, but discreet. Boys stay back the night (but never for breakfast), and go home, happy and smiling (without a number to call back). They still compliment him on his throwaway rug, as he lazily shuts the door in their faces. He reads Haruki Murakami after.

He has sex and knows all his moves, but isn’t sexy. He bites the pillows when he comes (and he’d want you to bite him too).